Weekend at the Paradise Inn
by Phantasmagoric Kaleidoscope
Summary: Arthur is a cynical gigolo and Francis is a hopeless romantic, with emphasis on hopeless, who needs Arthur's help. FrUK
1. First Contact

Weekend at Paradise Inn

Chapter One: First Contact

It wasn't his idea. In fact, the idea had never, ever crossed Francis's mind. He was smoking behind the restaurant with his fellow waiter.

"It's a tragedy, mon ami, I cannot possibly show up a wedding without a date." Francis said.

Gilbert snorted, rolling his eyes.

"Why don't you hire an escort." Gilbert said.

It was probably a joke.

Francis shrugged.

"I wouldn't know where to find one." Francis said, flicking ash to the floor.

Gilbert blinked at him.

"I know." Gilbert said. "I didn't think it would be your thing."

"Desperate times, Gilbert." Francis said, then he frowned. "How do you know an escort, Gilbert? I'll tell your little brother on you."

"Ludwig knows him too." Gilbert said. "I went to school with him."

"You went to school with an escort?"

"He wasn't an escort then." Gilbert said. He checked his watch. "We should get back. I'll give you his number when we're done."

Francis put out his cigarette and followed Gilbert back into the restaurant.

88

A week later, Francis turned into a cafe, relived to be rid of the London drizzle.

The cafe was one of Francis's favourites.

The staff were good-looking and kind, and the coffee was more drinkable than most he'd had in England. There were a few couples, a group of teenage girls, a lone man sat in a corner, reading a book. He had to be Arthur Kirkland, Gilbert's school friend gone gigolo. He was undeniably attractive, with short, effortless and slightly messy golden blond hair and large dark eyebrows that framed striking green eyes.

"Arthur?" Francis said, approaching him. The man looked up and closed his book.

"You must be Francis." Arthur said. He gestured to the seat opposite him. "Sit down."

Francis sat down. A waitress came over to him, placing a cup and saucer in front of Arthur.

"Thank you." He said.

"Can I get you anything?" the waitress asked Francis, smiling.

"An espresso, please." Francis said, smiling back at her. The pretty waitress nodded,

"I'll be right back." She said, brightly.

Arthur rolled his eyes, and took out another book, a notebook, bound in brown leather that had acted as his diary for years.

"So." Arthur said, when she walked away. He took a sip of his tea. "What did you need from me?"

"A long weekend." Francis said.

Arthur raised one eyebrow and clicked his pen. "That's very expensive."

"Do you think I can't afford it?"

"You're dressed well," Arthur said. "But you wanted to meet here. Usually my richer clients like to make an expensive first impression. Plus you work with Gilbert, which makes you a waiter."

The waitress came over, putting the drink in front of Francis.

"Can I get you anything else?" She said.

"No thank you." Arthur said quickly, not breaking eye contact with Francis. He hadn't broken it since he'd sat down, Francis realised. It was disconcerting.

The waitress trudged away.

"How much exactly is it?" Francis said, trying to match the intense stare.

"For dates I charge three-hundred an hour. Full days are a thousand. Extras...well, that depends on what you want." Arthur said.

"Extras?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Kissing is free. So is holding hands, hugging and the such. Sex is -"

"I don't want to pay you for sex." Francis said, quickly.

"No, just the pleasure of my company." Arthur said. "What weekend? And what's the occasion?"

"First weekend of June. My cousin, Matthew, is getting married." Francis said. "In Cornwall. The room is already paid for, Thursday until Monday."

Arthur wordless made notes.

Francis watched him.

"Usually I'm hired by women." Arthur said, not looking up.

"What kind of women?" Francis said.

"The rich and lonely kind." Arthur smiled.

"Desperate?"

"All my clients are desperate." Arthur said, his green eyes flickering over Francis, and then back down to his book.

"Do you always insult them, mon cher?"

"I'd prefer it if you kept the pet names for when other people are around." Arthur says.

"Anyway. Here is my contract. My card is inside. If you have any questions, call me, between two and four in the afternoon."

Francis took the folder out of Arthur's hands.

He stood up, picking up his book and note book and pocketing his pen. He pulled on his jacket.

"Let me know as soon as possible, Francis."

Francis nodded, standing and putting out a hand.

"I will."

Arthur took it, and leaned over, kissing Francis on the cheek.

"I'll look forward to it."

Arthur left, and Francis sat back down to drink his rapidly cooling espresso.

88

Francis put the contract to the side, sighing and sipping on his glass of wine. It's been a long night shift, and now he would have to wait twelve hours to call Arthur. He wasn't sure about going through with it. It was expensive, almost all of his savings, savings which would be better spent paying off student loans, but he was desperate. Francis was not good at lasting relationships. He was good at flirting, he was good at dates, and an expert at falling in love. But after a few weeks the romance that had sizzled fizzled and died, and he was left heartbroken.

He'd already told his family that he was bringing a guest.

The contract had a lot of rules, Arthur was expensive, but he seemed thorough. The contract contained a long questionnaire which asked about Francis and his and Arthur's fictional relationship.

How did we meet?

Francis clicked his pen.

He had no idea how to answer the first question.

How long have we been together?

How serious are we?

What is our favourite couple activity?

What was our first date?

Francis slid the contract back into the paper folder and drained his glass, deciding he'd sort it out with Arthur when he called him.

88

"Alright. So we met in the National Gallery, right in front of Monet's Irises, our mutual favourite painting and flowers." Arthur said.

Francis nodded. "That does sound nice. We got talking and went for coffee together."

"What was our first date?" Arthur said, writing everything down.

Francis sipped his wine.

"A restaurant." Francis said. "French."

Arthur shook his head. "Cliché."

"Fine. You asked. Where did we go?"

"It was a sunny day." Arthur said. "And we went and did very many tourist things. It was stupid and cheesy, but we had fun."

"And that's not cliché?" Francis said.

Arthur drank his beer. "It's much less cliché and boring than a restaurant. The French restaurant was our second date."

"Fantastique."

"And I bought you an iris plant." Arthur said.

"What if I bought you the flowers?" Francis said, raising his eyebrow.

"I really don't bloody care." Arthur said, snappily. "What's my job?"

"You're an escort..."

"No, frog, my pretend job. Or do you want me to meet your family and tell them what I do?"

"No, fair point, mon cher." Francis said. "You can choose."

"I'll be a teacher. Primary school."

"How innocent." Francis said.

"Can I see your phone, please?" Arthur said. Francis frowned, but handed it over. Arthur quickly added his number, and opened up his camera.

"Smile." Arthur said, throwing his arm around Francis. He took the picture and handed it back to Francis. "Set it as your screen picture. We'll take another one on my phone when we're outside."

"I could send you this one..."

"No. Don't be stupid." Arthur said. "We can't have the same picture. That would be ridiculous."

Francis ran his fingers through his hair, feeling a bit like tearing it out, if it wasn't so wonderful. Arthur was more than a little bit abrasive. Like a pumice stone.

He supposed Arthur was right. It would look more realistic.

"How long have we been together? Not too long, as this is our first weekend away together." Arthur said.

"Four months." Francis said.

"That's the first thing you've said today that hadn't been totally ridiculous, frog."

"I hope you are planning on me a little more romantic on our weekend, Arthur." said Francis. Arthur leaned over, and put his hand on Francis's knee, sliding it up his thigh, pressing his hand near his crotch. His lips touched Francis's ear.

"I assure you, love, I can be as charming as you need me to be." Arthur said. "When you're paying me for it."

He pulled away. "What's our favourite couple activity?"

"Arthur." Francis said.

"What, Francis?" Arthur said, draining his beer.

"Thank you for doing this."

"No need to thank me." Arthur said. "Your money does that well enough."

"You've known Gilbert for a while?" Francis said. He gestured to the bartender to bring over another order of their drinks.

"Yes. Since we were children." Arthur said. "We've never been close."

"How come we've never met?"

"Like I said, we've never been close." Arthur said. "You're not supposed to ask questions about me, you're supposed to ask about your boyfriend."

"I want to know about you, too." Francis said.

Arthur shook his head and started writing something down. Francis smiled and thanked the bartender with a wink.

"I don't usually ask questions about my clients." Arthur said. "But you flirt with everything with legs. You're not shy. You're not completely unattractive. What on earth do you need me for?"

"I'm not good at relationships." Francis said. "They never last."

"Relationships are stupid. Whether their familial relationships, or friendly, or romantic, they're stupid and pointless and will always end in heartbreak."

"No, you just have to find the right person to spend forever with."

Arthur shook his head.

"There's no such thing as forever. Somebody will always be hurt. It always ends. Two ways. Either break up or death. That's it." Arthur said. He drank more beer. "I think that's enough for today."

"I'm not finished with my wine cher."

"Then stay. Call me with questions or suggestions."

Francis stood up, they were similar height. Arthur cupped Francis's chin in his hands and pulled him close, planting a long kiss on his lips, eyes on the watching bartender.

"Be good, love."

88

A/N: Thanks for reading! Please review


	2. Road Trip

**a/n: Thanks to Ioni24 for the review and to anyone who followed/favourited **

* * *

Francis arrived outside Arthur's apartment earlier than he was expected. He parked his car and walked towards the huge, expensive looking building. Of course, Arthur must earn a lot of money, judging my his extraordinary prices. Francis pressed the buzzer.

"You're early," Arthur said, after two rings.

"How did you know it was me, cher?" Francis said.

"Come up." Arthur said, and unlocked the door. He was in the middle of packing, something he didn't usually like to do on the same day as travelling, but it had been a busy week and a very late night. He went into his bathroom, and took his toothbrush, catching sight of the slight lilac marks under his eyes and sighed. Arthur wasn't a vain man, but his job depended on his appearance. He put his toiletry bag in his suitcase and zipped it shut, just in time to answer the door to Francis. Francis was leaning casually against the doorframe. He smiled with great smarminess, and produced an iris. Arthur suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. He had to get into character. Instead, he took the flower in one hand and Francis's hand in the other, and led him into the apartment, kicking the door the closed. He led Francis into the kitchen, straight past his bedroom. Nobody but him ever entered the bedroom. It was rare that he allowed clients in his home, he had few friends, no non-work related lovers.

It was all wholly unnecessary.

"Do you want something to drink?" He said to Francis.

"What do you have?" Francis said.

"I have tea. And there's water." Arthur said, he lets go of Francis's hand, which was softer than he'd imagined, even for someone as delicately good-looking as Francis. Arthur wasn't a liar and he wasn't blind, Francis was attractive, beautiful even, and graceful, and adamant that relationships were a worthwhile venture. So why was he single?

"Do you have any coffee?" Francis said.

"I'm afraid not." Arthur said. "I'd offer you something stronger but you're driving and I don't trust French drivers."

"Ah."

"What?" Arthur said, flicking on his kettle and deciding he'd make himself tea even if Francis wasn't having any. It was his own damn fault he arrived twenty minutes before he was supposed to.

"I was wondering how long it would take for you British charm to shine through." Francis said. "At least in France we drive on the correct side of the road."

"Do you want a drink or not?" Arthur said, impatiently dropping the teaspoon on the kitchen top.

"I suppose I'll have tea. Do you have chamomile?" Francis said.

"Of course." Arthur said. Francis watched him make the tea. The kitchen was nice, modern, but looked criminally unused. The oven, a new, expensive model looked like it hadn't ever been in use. Arthur put a mug down in front of him, and sat down at the breakfast bar next to him.

"So, we're going to your Canadian cousins wedding. He's marrying an Ukrainian. Why are they having it here?" Arthur said.

"Kat moved here with her siblings a few years ago." Francis said. "Matthew had a year studying. They met and fell in love very near the place they're getting married."

Francis was looking off into the distance as he spoke, as if enamoured by the air.

Arthur heard a ringing from the next room.

"I hope you'll excuse me, I can hear my phone." Arthur said. "I won't be long."

He took his tea into his bedroom to take his phone call, so Francis assumed it would take long. He waited until the door closed to slip off his stool and move further into the kitchen. The walls, like all the rest of Arthur's apartment were painted a deep red, almost burgundy. He slid his fingers against black marble and silver stainless steel. He opened the refrigerator. It was empty, except for milk and a six-pack of expensive beer. He closed it and looked in the freezer drawer. Only frozen microwave meals. He closed it and checked the cupboards. One was full of tea and nothing else, but every kind of tea. Another housed chocolate biscuits, most likely for dipping in tea. He rolled his eyes. At least, Francis thought, there was a bowl of fresh fruit on the breakfast bar. The apartment was smaller than Francis had imagined. The living room barely a separate room from the kitchen. There was no television, just a wall lined with hundreds of books. A desk looking out the window held a laptop, a set of notebooks identical to the one Arthur carried, and a collection of pens that all looked the same. Francis picked one up, making note of exactly where it went, and flicked through it. Names, addresses, services, payment. Dozens and dozens in one book, maybe hundreds of clients in all of them. He slipped it back. A cabinet between two doors, which Francis assumed was Arthur's room and the bathroom, was home to a small but varied personal bar. There was a sofa, the same deep red as the walls, and a mahogany coffee table, with a small pile of newspapers and magazines. A cream throw blanket was slung over the sofa, rumpled. Francis stood and looked around, noticing that the apartment could easily belong to just about anyone. There was no artwork on the walls, no photographs of family or friends. No trinkets. The only thing that was remotely unique or personal to Arthur were the notebooks.

Francis sat on the sofa. He could hear Arthur talk but couldn't make out the words. He leaned back, and felt something dig into him.

Another notebook. No, not just any of the notebooks. Arthur's current one. Francis went straight to the last page, expecting that to be where his information was.

Instead, he found information on a Sophie Smith, who was twice Arthur's age, maybe more, and wanted a lot more than a wedding date.

"Excuse you." Arthur said. "Are you reading anything interesting?"

"I was -"

"You were snooping." Arthur said. He held out his hand. Francis gave the book to him. "This is exactly why I don't have people here."

"You were with someone last night." Francis said. "Even though I am your client -"

"You can't possibly be jealous for a whore? I have other clients. Faithful ones, like Ms Smith. We've been doing business for years." Arthur said. "Have you finished your tea? We really should go."

"You shouldn't call yourself a whore, Arthur." Francis said.

"I won't in front of your family, don't worry." said Arthur. He went in his bedroom, wheeling out his suitcase.

"That's not what I meant." Francis said. "I do not like that word, cher."

"And I don't like that word, frog, or any French one for that matter." Arthur said. "I am a whore, people give me money and I give them sex. Sometimes people just want company, or to lie to their families like you do. I don't know what Gilbert told you, but primarily, this is what I do. The only difference between me and someone on the side of the road is useless pHd and some airs and graces. Now, be a dear and grab my suit. It's hanging up on the bathroom door." Arthur said. Francis took the suit and followed Arthur out the door, not commenting when Arthur didn't lock it.

88

Francis had to break the silence.

"You look tired, mon ange."

He caught Arthur glancing in the mirror.

"It was a late night last " said Arthur, "I was marking."

"What -" Francis said. "I see."

Arthur had gritted his teeth. He'd wanted to say, I was up late fucking a woman thirty years older than me, but he didn't. He'd promised himself that as soon as he sat in Francis's car, he would be charming. It was hard. Especially with how apparently tired he looked.

"I didn't mean anything by saying you looked tired, ange, I was just concerned." Francis said.

"I don't care." Arthur said. He sat up straighter, adjusting his seatbelt to avoid wrinkling his shirt. He stomach rumbled. He probably should not have skipped breakfast.

"Hungry?" Francis said. "We could stop off at a service station, if you want. It's not exactly fine dining, but you sound like you need it."

Shut up, frog.

"No, thank you." Arthur said. "I'm fine."

"You look pale." Francis said. Arthur undid his top button.

"Feel free to stop insulting me at anytime."

"More green, really, ange."

Arthur pressed his hot forehead against the cool windowpane.

"Please pull into the next services." Arthur said. Francis felt a flash of concern in the pit of his stomach.

As soon as they stopped, Arthur dove out the car and half-ran away into the building. Francis locked the car before jogging after him.

Arthur cursed his stupid doctor as he pulled his head out of the toilet, wiping his mouth with a wad of toilet roll. He swayed as he pulled himself to his feet, but regained his composure. He pulled the flush and walked out. Francis stood next to the sinks, arms crossed.

"Is everything okay?" Francis said. "Were you sick?"

Arthur ignored him, splashing his face with cold water. He dug in his pockets for mint, and stuck two in his mouth.

"I get car sick." Arthur said, quietly. "My stupid doctor messed up my prescription and I didn't get strong enough medication. Usually I can -"

"Arthur, don't worry." Francis said, putting his hand on Arthur's shoulder. "It's nothing to worry about."

"Yes it is, I smell like vomit and I look bloody terrible." Arthur said. "I skipped breakfast so I wouldn't have much to throw up, but I still..."

"You should eat, then." Francis said. "You're running on empty, no wonder you're tired.

Francis pushed a strand of Arthur's hair out of his face.

"And you look fine. Once you've eaten you'll look even better, and you can sleep in the car. You don't smell of anything bad, either." Francis said. Arthur wasn't sure how reassured he felt, but nodded, smoothing his shirt and flashing a smile at Francis.

88

After an early lunch, Arthur felt slightly more settled, if still nauseated.

He told Francis he'd go to sleep as long as he promised to wake him up thirty minutes before they arrived at their destination.

He'd always hated travel by car. Trains and boats were okay, air travel was fine as long as he had a drink. But cars had always made him sick. It just got worse.

He still felt hotly embarrassed.

This didn't add to his allure at all. This didn't make him at all attractive.

Soon enough, he'd let himself relax enough to fall asleep.


	3. Consider Yourself

A/n**: this is incredibly short and probably more like half a chapter, but a reminder I'm not dead and that this is a continuing story**

**I'm so, so, sorry this has taken so long.**

**Thank you for the support so far.**

Weekend at the a Paradise Inn 3

Meet and Greet

Francis watched Arthur sleep. He thought Arthur looked quite sweet, with his mouth closed and without his many expressions of disapproval. It wasn't a particularly long drive, or it shouldn't have been, but the traffic was bad. Francis was glad. He was as nervous enough as it was. Would his family see straight through his lies?

And he almost felt guilty about waking Arthur up.

"You know you could have slept until we got there?" Francis said. "I wouldn't have minded."

"I would." Arthur said, straightening out his collar. "It'll take me a few minutes to wake up."

"Ah." Francis said. "You look better."

Arthur stared out the window, watching the world roll by.

"If you're having second thoughts, Francis -"

"No, no." Francis said. "Why would you think that?"

Arthur watched him. He looked at the way the sun hit his hair, making it shine like gold.

Arthur shook the thoughts from his head.

"I just had a feeling." Arthur said. "It's a lot."

"What is?" Francis said.

"This lie. Lying to your family." Arthur said. "I just think it's strange."

"And I suppose you tell the truth about what you do to your family, ange?"

Arthur cocked his head to the side; Francis's voice was harsher than it had been before. Wound up like too-tight strings. He almost sounded angry.

"I don't have a family." Arthur said. "And if I did...I wouldn't see the point in lying."

"Of course not." Francis said, smirking. "I suppose you think you are always truthful?"

Arthur suppressed a yawn.

"What is this place called again?" Arthur said.

"Paradise Inn." Francis said.

Arthur gave a derisive snort;

"They're getting married at the Paradise Inn?" He said, one bushy eyebrow raised.

"Yes, it's romantic, is it not?" Francis said.

"Well. That's one way of looking at it." Arthur said. "Completely cheesy is another way."

"You're in a strange job for someone so unromantic." Francis commented, still watching Arthur fuss with his hair with one eye, keeping the other on the road.

"It's not important what I am in private, if in public I act like a sappy hopeless romantic, like you." Arthur said.

"You're so charming."

"I am." Arthur said. "What's the point of pretending with you when we're alone? You've made it clear that this is a one time thing, and you've already seen me in a dreadful state."

Francis glanced at him. "It's not your fault you were sick."

"Actually it's literally my fault I was sick." Arthur said.

Francis didn't argue with him. He was tired. He'd hope that they could go straight the room, drop off their bags and maybe go sleep on the beach (sunbathe, nap, that was the same thing). It was all well and good hoping, but Francis knew that wouldn't be the case. He'd have family (who he loved, very much) to deal with. They were as difficult as they were numerous.

He was confident that Arthur would be able to switch on the charm offensive, but he wasn't sure how effectively.

That was until they arrived, within in ten minutes Francis's family were more invested in Arthur than they'd ever been in him. This was good and bad. Good, because they all seemed to like him. Bad because it was all so fake.

And Arthur was infuriatingly right.

They'd eaten dinner. It was a standard three course affair. Tasteless appetiser, bland main course , over ambitious dessert.

Arthur was less than impressed.

Then again, he always was.

He wished he could be different.

He wished that bitterness, bitter sweet, could turn to just plain sweet.

Arthur liked Francis, against his own wishes, desires, his own anything.

And he always would.


End file.
